The Trail - One Shots
by The Purple Pineapple
Summary: One-Shots, for now only from the trail. It was originally just one chapter, but I decided to group them together, instead of starting different stories. Olitz-centric, and probably slightly heart-wrenching. You know how I get.
1. The Election Night

There was a moment, a moment after they called it – his eyes had gone blank, and he flexed his jaw, his hands slightly trembling – it wasn't fear, it was disbelief. But then he blinked the doubt away, pushed his insecurities aside and smiled. That winning smile, the one that's a cover-up, rehearsed to perfection. Somewhere along the line he forgot how to smile, he forgot, but then she came along and he realized that smile is more than curving of the lips, it's more than flashing teeth – it's happiness that reaches the eyes, it's pushing way past the rehearsed-smile-lines. But this, this isn't that kind. This one doesn't speak of love; it's masking fear. And she can tell, for a moment she can tell. But then he's looking away, shaking hands, patting backs and he's surrounded by the crowd. She turns away from the small window and leans against the wall. She can hear the cheers of victory; the stories of success – and she knows she can't stay.

She hasn't seen him all day. She's been avoiding it since she said – yes, since she agreed, against everything she believed in, to go ahead. She hasn't seen him all day. Maybe she's never really seen him, never seen past the cerulean eyes, into the shadows that loom behind; because that smile, the smile she just saw – that was not a man who had won, that was a man who lost. She had done it for him; for his insecurity, for years of hearing he couldn't do it; for the demons his father left behind, the demons omnipresent in his mind. She had done it for him. She fixed it for him. But she never thought she could be breaking him, by fixing this. It was a smile of a man who lost; of a man lost. A smile that matched the tears she held back, the moment she said – yes.

"Liv." He breaks her out od her thoughts; he breaks her out. "I won." The statement, so very child-like, so simple, yet so deep – telling her, _that_ means the world to him; that's what makes it real.

"I know." And she smiles; it's her own personal cover-up. He can see, he sees past the mask, but he doesn't know what's behind, he doesn't know the demons in her mind.

"You think I'll make a good president?" Before it was a moment of weakness, now it's a moment of victory, no longer a mere possibility.

"I think you'll make a great president." And he lifts her up; he smiles, it's real this time. And in that moment she thinks – it was the right thing. But the demons, they're still lingering. They're no longer a team. She fixed this, she fixed him; but she left the team. So now, now she has to let him go, let him be, away from her, just him; because she, she broke the team. She broke herself, to save him; she broke herself and she broke the team. What they were, what they had been, it's been broken the moment she said she was in. The shadows in her eyes, they're not fear of losing him; they're grief for them, for what they've had. So when he puts her down, she slowly steps away, putting her hand on his chest – not a soft touch to feel his heart; no it's a barrier to keep him at bay.

"We have to stop this."

"No."

"You've just been elected president. We can't do this anymore." She's hiding behind that particular wall, she's hiding and she's ashamed; but he'll bite he's a reasonable man.

"I don't care."

"Fitz."

"No."

"We have to stop." And she pulls her hand away from his chest; she doesn't want to feel his heart break; she turns around and walks away. She stumbles into her bed, fully clothed; wraps herself in blankets, she's freezing, her insides are cold. She trembles, and curls up, disappearing into the dark.

"Livvy." He's sitting on the edge of the bed. How did he get in? Why is he there? "You're burning up."

"I'm fine." And she tries to get up, but the room is spinning, her legs are weak, she can feel herself falling. And he tucks her back in, his touch the only source of warmth she can feel. He gets her something to drink; he gets her a pill and then he's in her bed; pulling her in. She moves her head to his chest; and she can hear his heart beating, a faint echo of the broken half, lingering behind. Every time she pushes him away it chips; and every time she pulls him back it heals – but the scars, they stay; they're still there. The soft thumping, the perfect rhythm – it soothes her mind, it keeps the demons at bay; it lets her drift away. The next morning she awakes and the sun is up and he's still there. It's the first time he's spent the night; the first time she didn't make him leave; the first time she admitted to needing him. It's the first time, and the last; she's pushing the present into the past. He can feel her stir and he opens his eyes, kissing her before she can speak.

"Don't do this Liv." It's a plea; his every feeling in the crack of his voice; in the way the statement holds hope.

She's kissing him back. She'll do it when he's president. But not, right now. No, now she can't.

She broke herself, all she has is him. And he's her personal brand of heroin. She can't stop. She can't leave. And she will do anything, for him. For him, but not with him – no she broke the team.


	2. Camp David

There is something about Her voice – it so easily becomes background noise, just words filling up space, the space of everything that is unsaid. She talks about the White House – the staff, the history, the décor; there is a sense of joy in Her voice, a tone Liv hasn't heard before. A tone of genuine excitement, not present when She talks about kids, or about Him. She finally got what she wanted and She revers in the duality of it – all of it. The ornamental and the functional; the personal and the public; the realness and the pretense. It's the duality She's been brought up to excel in; duality is who She is. That's what Liv thinks about as the women sitting next to Him keeps talking. Her mouth opening and closing; but always, beginning, and ending in a smile – rehearsed to perfection, it's second nature. She talks, He nods and Liv looks on. She speaks occasionally. She asks questions to allow Her to carry on the conversation; she asks questions but the answers don't register. No, it's all just background noise. She eats her food, but she can't taste it; she can't taste her wine either, it's flavorless, odorless; the lights too bright or too dim; everything, everything is wrong, but Him. No, that's the thing – He is wrong as well, they are a mistake and now she realizes that. Sitting alone, opposite of _them_, opposite of the-picture-perfect; she knows it's over. Whatever this is; whatever it was – it's over.

Their legs touch under the table. An accident. A mistake that takes her breath away. She looks at Him – just briefly; but she can't look away, that's not them. She looks at Him; His eyes pleading; a story of regret. Regret He walked Her to the cabin door tonight; regret He agreed to the dinner; regret He's putting her through this; regret that she isn't His; regret that she may never be; regret that they may never be. Regret eating at Him. Regret: it makes her angry. Regret signals defeat, signals giving in. And suddenly she can't breathe. The way He looks at her, the way He sees her – it's too much; it's too personal. It's no longer just sex, tangled bodies, and stolen touches in hotel lobbies; no, it's missing Him and not just His body against hers, but His voice; the way His eyes light up when He really smiles and the way He absentmindedly runs His fingers through His hair. It's the pit in the bottom of her stomach every time she looks at His wife; it's a flinch when She touches His cheek to wipe off the sauce; it's looking away when She reaches for His hand. It's her suffocating in this room; drowning in His eyes; trying to say a goodbye. It's her getting up, abruptly, startling Him; interrupting Her monologue; Her rehearsed answer to an unasked question.

"I'm sorry. I'm not feeling well." She looks ill – fortunately. Mellie smiles sympathetically and gets up to give her a hug. It's warm, friendly almost; but she can't breathe, because all she sees is a pair of grey eyes, watching her; sucking her back in. She can't breathe.

"I'll walk you to your cabin." But she turns around before He can get up and shoots Him an icy smile; the same kind He reserves for his wife.

"That won't be necessary Mr. President. I'm sure I can find my way."

He doesn't argue. He doesn't protest. He lets her walk away. He stays. He stays and regrets.

Clarity. She needs clarity. But even the cool night air is suffocating. The silence deafening. The breeze against her skin just makes her think of Him. She can't walk away, He's everywhere.

She stumbles into her cabin and collapses, her back against the door, her palms firmly on the cool wooden floor. Inhale – exhale – repeat. The darkness should be soothing but the candles are still flickering, the flames dancing across the room – mocking her; reminding her of the illusion she believed in, the feelings she got lost in. Reminding her of Him. Everything, a constant reminder of Him. She stays like that until the candles finally burn out, until she's engulfed in the dark – the outside world finally matching her mind.

Shower. She needs to get out of these clothes. She needs to wash it all away. To wash Him away. She needs to cleanse. The sweater falls to the floor, followed by the rest of what she wore – a trail of discarded items, a trail of reminders. She stands before the mirror, her fingers tracing the mark on her collarbone.

_They stumble into the cabin, laughing between the deep kisses. He pins her back against the door and lifts her up from the floor – she's in his arms, grounded no more. He exhales and she inhales him – they repeat. The candles are flickering, but they don't notice – there's no light aside from their eyes, aside from their smiles. Their bodies, they're dancing across the room; the way his fingers imprint on her hips; the way her nails dig into his back. They're in sync – they're real. The way his skin feels against hers; the way her eyes flutter shut and the way his breath hitches right before it leaves his mouth. The way they collapse together to the ground; the way they don't notice the candles going out – no they're too engulfed in the now; the present is all that matters, the outside world never reaches them._

_The faint morning light wakes them up – it's time to get up. She lifts his sweater from the floor, followed by the rest of what he wore – a trail of discarded items, a trail of reminders. She smiles as his arms wrap around her waist, pulling her up. He starts kissing her neck, slowly moving down to her collarbone. "I don't want to go." He says it quietly, the sound almost lost in her skin. He keeps kissing the same spot, his teeth slightly grazing against the bone – she knows it will leave a mark, and usually she'd stop him; she'd speak out, but not this time. She doesn't want to push him away, she wants him to stay – she loves it this way. This time she lets it all go and lets him in, believing for the first time that they _are_ real. _

Now, as the white light shows every little pigment change in the mark she just smiles; a lone tear falling from her eyes. It rolls down her cheek slowly, and then falls, hitting her collarbone. But then it's gone, broken into million pieces; shattered. The trail on her cheek dries, fades, nothing left– was it ever there?

He walks into their meeting room, ready to apologize; ready to change her mind, again; to talk her off the ledge, once again. Ready to move past his regret.

"Where's Olivia?"

"She's gone. A family emergency." Cy looks up and sees panic in His eyes; he's surprised. "It'll be fine. She set us on the right path."

Fitz just faintly smiles. She's gone. There was a moment that night; the morning right before he walked out when she let him leave that mark – a moment in time when she let him in, when she believed in them as much as him. She let him leave a mark, a mark of love, just that one time. But now she's gone, and all he has left is slow-burning resentment and regret.

He sits down, Cyrus' voice just background noise.


	3. Incredible Love

**This is sort of from the Trail, but also just my imagination running wild. A tumblr request - inspired by Ingrin Michaelson's Incredible Love. Hope you'll like (all the angst).**

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Sound of footsteps on the soft carpet. Her heart beats faster the closer he gets; beating out of her chest.

A knock on the door. She stays sprawled out on the bed a moment longer; a moment to pretend that she can leave him outside, that she can resist him; a moment to pretend that she has a choice, that her mind isn't already made up, that it wasn't made up the moment the strip turned pink. A moment to pretend that she's not in too deep, and still falling; a moment to believe that she can get out of this; unscathed and unscarred. A moment to pretend this won't break his heart.

"Hi." He smiles. It's a soft smile, the worried one, the kind that tells her he already knows what's on her mind; what happens now.

"Hi." She holds the door as he steps in – his scent intoxicating; she can't think. "Fitz-" He turns around, his gaze piercing, it gets under her skin; he sees beyond what she's projecting. He crosses the room to where she's standing – his answer is a kiss. His answer is always a kiss. It's a way to connect, it's desperate. It's a way to delay the brokenness; a way to forgive and forget. It's his way, his attempt. She reciprocates. Their tongues battle, the kisses rushed, deep, open-mouthed. His lips on her neck; she's taking off his jacket; his hands under her hem. He lifts her up; she gasps; her skin is burning under his touch, her back against the cool wall; his pants are on the floor. He fills her. Her eyes shut, ragged breaths leaving her mouth; her nails digging into his back; his fingers bruising her hips. This hurt is healing; this hurt is everything.

They're lying in the bed; her head on his chest. Her eyes are closed – her way to keep the tears at bay; his are fixed on her – he's trying to take her in, take the moment in; the moment before the reality hits. Her hand searches for his; their fingers intertwining – it's comforting. Her thumb is caressing his lazily. And then, then she stops. She speaks.

"I'm not keeping it." That's it. He knew she would say it, but somehow, somehow it hurts just the same; somehow hearing and knowing are two completely different pains. He doesn't know what to say. He wants to go back. Back to before this life was a possibility, back to before they had a chance to think about it, to dream about it. Back to before he could imagine it; see it so clearly – his eyes, her lips, curls bouncing as the little girl is running. He'd give anything to be able to go back; to be able to save her from the pain, to save her from the dreams he knows they shared; to save her from wanting the life they can't have.

She says it, but her voice doesn't seem her own; it seems hoarse; foreign almost. She says it and silence follows; his breaths shallow, broken almost. She wants him to speak; speak, say anything. She wants him to fight her on it. She wants him to tell her to keep it; to tell her they could do it, they could have it; they could raise it. She wants him to tell her they could still have the dream; they could still have all of it. But she knows he'll agree. Not because he doesn't want it; no; he'll agree because he thinks she wants _this_. He'll agree because he knows the alternative isn't a dream; it's reality, it's shattering – it's her hiding; it's him walking away; it's missed birthdays, and phone calls cut-short; it's watching school plays on video; it's misery for a promise of a possibility; a possibility of impossible love becoming a reality. Or he walks away from the presidency, and she lets him stay; she lets him stay with them; and then one day – he'll wake up and he'll realize he has more yesterdays than tomorrows and he'll resent her; he'll resent himself. This is who he is; who he's meant to be, and from that, from that he can't walk away. She wants him to speak up; she wants him to tell her they can still have the dream, but she already knows it was never real, it was just their minds playing tricks, subverting reality.

"OK." One word, two letters – life-changers; it's what kills them. It breaks her heart; a lone tear falls from her eye. It's done; the dream gone. He pulls her in, pulls her naked body on top of his, her lips softly brushing against his. He kisses away her tear as she brushes away his. Neither speaks; they just breathe; forever in sync. "Do you want me to come with you?"

"You can't."

"OK." He doesn't fight her; and she fights it. This feeling, of wanting him, of needing him – fights it desperately. She moves slowly, off of him, then on her side; facing the window, because she can't face him. No, the window; the outside – it's a world not suffocating her; it's a world of trivial, a world of possibilities; here, him – it's broken dreams, it's what-ifs; it's never-will-be-s. It's gut-wrenching; a part of her dying; it's them changing, never the same – past the romance, past the lingering glances and stolen touches, past the innocence; a broken cliché. So she looks outside, out into the night; city lights replacing the glimmer of his eyes. He turns as well; tries to hold her – but she pulls away, she can't. She wants him to try again; she wants him to stay; but instead – "You should go prep for the debate tomorrow."

"Liv…" He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know whether to stay. He's hurt her enough and he can't keep hurting her, not this way. He rolls out of bed and collects his clothes from the hotel-room floor. He's never been to her home. He's never met her family; he doesn't know her friends; he doesn't even know her middle name. Clothed he sits on the bed and draws his fingers through his hair; his head fin his hands – she's still looking away. "What's your middle name?"

She doesn't turn around, at least not right away. When she does she's betrayed by the redness of her eyes – the silent tears still run. "Carolyn. After my grandma." He lays a kiss on her shoulder and she turns away again. He pulls the covers over her, the last act of love, of tenderness, before he walks away. He opens the door and then he looks back, just for a moment. He can see her reflection in the window: faint, barely an outline – disappearing in and out of sight; barely there, barely alive, a shadow in his mind.

It was incredible; the dream they had, the moment they shared; the moment in which they let themselves pretend. It was incredible. But now it's gone – they live in the aftermath. The aftermath of an impossible love.


	4. Leave me Breathless

**Just to point out - these are not in a particular chronological order. Thanks to cheekyincubus for suggesting the song - it's Breathless by Corinne Bailey Rae. **

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She has a poker face when she reads, so he can't tell. He can't tell if she likes his speech, or if she hates it; he can't tell what she's thinking and that, that is driving him mad. He stares at the clock as the neon numbers glow in the semi-darkness; he watches them change, over and over again, trying desperately to not look at her face. To not look at the way the pages are reflected in her eyes, courtesy of the sharp light coming from the desk lamp. Trying to not look at her cheeks, her skin – the way it almost glows, the way it radiates something, something so essentially Olivia Pope – a mix of confidence and fragility. Her lips. Don't look at her lips. Soft and inviting; so misleading. He_ is_ married. But, no, he can't _not_ look at her face; to him it's a maze to get lost in; he is Icarus stuck in the labyrinth – just when he thinks he's out he falls back down, back to the ground where he's not him; where he's the man she wants him to be. Her face – it leaves him breathless.

He is looking at her. He is looking at her and she can't focus. She's trying, trying desperately to keep her face straight; keep her poker face; stay professional in the moment – but she can't. The pages, the words, in her mind it's jumbled slurs; no meaning, no consequence; nothingness; nothing, but this man. She looks at him over the page she's staring at, desperately trying to read, to comprehend and not just stare. He's looking at the clock, seemingly fascinated by the time passing, numbers changing. She looks back down at the page in her hand, trying to forget the way his eyebrows furrow when he's lost in thought, the way little lines form. She tries to not look as he scrunches up his nose, innocently, almost childishly – no inhibitions, no forced control – completely relaxed, entirely himself, when they're alone. Don't look at his lips. Soft and inviting; so misleading. He's married. But, no, she can't_ not_ look at him; she can't forget about him; she can't pretend he's not there; that this, whatever this is, isn't happening. She can't pretend; she knows she will fail, but she'll try hard as hell anyway. She can feel his eyes burning her skin; she can feel him staring; she can feel him zooming in on her lips – she sees him licking his. She can't pretend, but she's trying. She's trying to ignore it, ignore him, but she can't. No, the way he looks at her; the way she wants to look at him; he – leaves her breathless.

"I should head up." She's already getting up as she says it, moving away from him quickly; she needs space. Her mind needs space to function. To pretend successfully she needs to be away from him.

"You're already done?" He asks, although he knows she's not – he's seen how many pages she's read; he's seen her stare at them endlessly.

"Not yet. But I'm too tired to finish it tonight. I'll do it tomorrow. Goodnight Governor." He hates it. He hates that she's leaving. He hates that he can't stop her. He hates that he can't follow her. He hates that she calls him "governor".

"Good night." She hates it. She hates that she's leaving. She hates that he doesn't stop her. She hates that he doesn't follow her. She hates that she calls him "governor". But mostly, she hates herself for hating all of it – she hates herself for the way she feels – so she leaves.

She can't sleep. It's too hot and the air is thick; she's sweating under the thin, white sheets. She can't sleep. She's been trying. Trying for an hour, or so, but no more. Instead she gets up and decides to head down to the bad. She needs a drink, a glass of wine. Something to clear her mind, no, soothe it; because – let's be clear – she's given up on clarity. She pulls a simple jersey dress over her head; something she'd wear on her off-days. It's cotton; it's so light, summery; it's grey, not white. It's almost empty, the hotel bar, almost empty, but for the bartender, an older man, with a few drinks too many, and Him. He's sitting at a table in the corner of the dark room; an almost empty glass in between his forearms; his hands together, his fingers playing absentmindedly with his wedding-band; teasing it up and down, each time sliding it further. She orders her wine, her eyes still fixed on him; on his ring. She takes a moment to look away. She stares at the deep red in her glass; the playful fire of the reflecting lights; a moment to look away and comprehend – how much she wants to talk to him again; hear his voice; feel his eyes linger – how much she wants it, how much she wants him, all of him, everything he has to give – how much she wants him and how much she hates herself for it. She downs her wine and puts down the glass with a soft thump, a thump for the unused hello and the unsaid goodbye – she'll walk away, that's best.

"Olivia." His voice stops her in her tracks. Slowly, she turns around. Slowly, she lifts her eyes. "Can I get you another drink?" He looks at her glass, a smirk forming, "you seem thirsty."

It's dark so he can't see her blush – _Thank God_, she thinks to herself – _No, Olivia, Focus_! "Actually Governor I was just leaving."

"That's a shame." They just longer, look at each other – the face, the eyes, the lips – their breaths hitched.

"Well, my boss has a big day tomorrow and it's getting late." She smiles at him, but it's not real; no, it's masking – desire, fear, conflict. He can see past it, she can tell, so she turns around to leave – to get out while she still can.

"Dance with me."

She looks at him over her shoulder, "It's a hotel bar. Nobody's dancing."

"We could be." He says it playfully. Her knees go weak. He knows what he's doing. He's walking over to her, but than stops, leaving enough space; enough air – to breathe, to keep some clarity. They're not touching. Barely apart. She can feel his chest rising and falling rhythmically behind her back; she can feel his head lowering to her shoulder – the hotness of his breath on her neck. She can feel his arms struggling to stay at his sides. They sway with the music, slowly – oh, so, slowly – but perfectly together, perfectly in sync – the whole time not touching. Electricity between them, buzzing, but no touching. No, _that_, would be inappropriate.

_I get so breathless_… And the song is done; the silence bringing reason back into their minds. He takes a step back and she instantly feels his absence – not of touch, but of presence. The absence that leaves her breathless.

"Goodnight Olivia." She doesn't say anything; she's got nothing, nothing but pretending. This, never happened; no, they didn't have a moment; she never let it happen. Pretending. It's inadequate. It's slipping away from her. Pretending; it's betraying her. So she stays quiet, because anything else, anything else would acknowledge the moment – would acknowledge that she can no longer pretend. She stares at the ground as he walks away.

He pauses for a moment as he passes her – letting the closeness fill him up once again, one last time. And then, then he walks away. And instantly, he feels the distance; feels her absence. Her absence, it makes him breathless. He collapses against the cool elevator wall, exhaling finally – this can't be happening. He's married; he's running for president; he has to ignore it, he has to pretend. But the truth is, he can't; he can't and he knows it – he'll fail, just like she's been failing.

They'll pretend, and they'll fight it, but they'll lose the battle and they both know it. Not because of a temporary lapse in judgment, not because of lust and passion; no, they'll lose the battle because slow-dancing to a soft tune in a hotel bar in the middle of the night, without ever touching, was the most intimate contact either of them ever had. It filled them up, it consumed them and made them forget for a moment – it made them breathless. It left them breathless.

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**Hope you liked that :) If anyone else has any requests, do let me know :)**


	5. If only for one night

**Another request. This one is from sweetness04fj, ****_If only for one night_**** by Luther Vandross. This one is set the day of Big Gerry's funeral. **

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It's the perfect funeral. The perfect graveyard. The grass is neatly cut, and the chairs in orderly lines. No one cries, but they all hold white handkerchiefs bringing them gracefully up to their eyes, wiping away the invisible tears. There are guns, all firing at the same time – loud, but not too loud; dignified. Politicians and their wives; businessmen and their wives – all, designer heels and silk ties. And his speech, his speech is perfect too. Just the right length, just the right content – it's sad, but not remorseful, ends on a positive note – it's hopeful. And he delivers it well – pauses in right places for effect, smiles with teary eyes interchangeable with glances into the crowd, into the distance as if trying to see the moments he's describing. He is an excellent politician. He finishes and sits back down. The perfect Son. Next to his children. Next to his wife. The picture perfect life at a funeral – it's empty, hollow; it's a lie. His speech is a lie, and so are his smiles; the truth lies behind the tears in his eyes. And the touches; the way _she_ holds his hand loosely – it's all empty, hollow; it's a lie. They walk down the chalk-white path and into the shiny black cars; leaving the California sun outside. He moves over to the window, hands in his lap, forehead on the cool glass and wishes he could hold her right now, wishes he could talk to her, hear her voice, just look into her eyes. He wishes that just today, just for this one day, they didn't have to hide, that they could be them, out in the open. But they can't. So instead, he closes his eyes and imagines her face as the long line of cars starts to move away; away from the perfect death, into the messiness of life.

Three cars down Cyrus is talking, and talking fast about how perfect it was, how dignified, the funeral. She doesn't hear what he's saying; no she's lost in thought, lost in wishing thing were different, at least for a day, at least today. She wishes she could hold him right now, wishes she could talk to him, hear his voice, just look into his eyes, make sure he's alright, make sure he's fine. She wishes that just for the day they were right and not a mistake.

She finds him outside. He swings the ax, glistening in the light, the silver reflecting the bright afternoon sun; and then it comes crashing down, destroying everything in its path. It's kind of magical – how quickly something can become destructive; how easily things break; how easily they're gone beyond repair. His father destroyed him, so he's destroying this; he broke him, so he's breaking this. Can he heal? Her voice breaks him out of it, out of his trance, out of his anger and into his grief – she _breaks_ him. She praises his speech, but he doesn't hear it, not really – he hears the praise, but doesn't understand it's not aimed at his story, not at the mask he put up, not at the charade; no it's a praise of his strength. She sees it, she sees him; she sees how much he's struggling; she can see his pain, not as a sign of weakness, but as a sign of strength. He walks up to her – he can't touch her, he can't hold her – not the way he wants to. He brushes his hand against hers instead, but it's not enough; no it's just another regret; another sting, another sign of weakness – he doesn't have it in him to walk away, from her, or from being the president. She thinks he'll be great; but he doesn't hear it, no – it's muted out by insecurity. She thinks he _is_ great – but he can't see that, he can never see that from where he's standing, in the shadow of a petty and a selfish man, in the shadow of a dead man. And he swings the ax again, but this time, this time he fails – he fails yet again, at something else. No, he's not giving up, not this time – he pushes through; he can break the wood; he can cut it down – cut it in size, just like his father broke him down, cut him down. He can win at this, he can win this time. But in this, in this she sees weakness. She steps up to meet his height; she steps up and pulls him in – she just lets him breathe. She lets him be. There's so much love in the way her fingers play with his curls, and the way her chest molds around his head – there's so much love in that gesture. Love that lets him fall apart.

Mellie calls out from the house and instantly, they pull apart. It's rushed – him fixing up his face, hiding his eyes; her fixing up her dress, playing nervously with her hands. It's rushed – walking back to the house, silently, apart, like strangers; lovers caught in a lie. It's rushed – like their love; so rushed.

The sun is long gone, and the pink trail it left behind is beginning to fade; beginning to darken. It's getting late and they say their goodnights; they lie in their beds and turn off their lights. He, he stays outside – a bottle of scotch and a glass, as he sits on the porch looking up at the stars. He stays outside – the feeling of crisp air filling his lungs is the only thing that lets him know this is not a dream; today, today has been real. Upstairs, she can't sleep; she thinks of him. She can't sleep; she thinks of how broken he is, she thinks of how to fix him; she thinks of how she failed him. She can't sleep, not anymore, not without him.

The house is eerily quiet, her footsteps breaking up the midnight silence. He hears the door sliding, but he doesn't turn around, he doesn't look up; he just stares at the stars. He feels a hand on his shoulder and there's a soft – Hi.

"Hi." Her hand moves from his shoulder to his hair, her fingers softly caressing his scalp – soothing.

"I'm sorry." It's so soft; her voice barely her own.

He finally looks at her, finds the lost starts in her eyes – they shine so bright. "What about?" He thinks she's talking about his father; about the unfortunate loss of life; but, she's not, instead she's sorry for the imperfections of their love.

"That I couldn't be there today."

"You were there." He says with a soft smile, drawing his hand over hers and pulling it down; laying a soft kiss on the inside of her palm.

"No, I wasn't. Not in the way… The way I should have been; the way you needed me."

"Hey, come here." And he pulls her down into his lap. It's risky – they could be found; it's playing with fire in the night – it's how you get caught. But it's what they need in that moment; he needs to hold her and she needs to hold him. "You were there. At the funeral, all I could see was your face. In the crowd, that's what stood out. That's what got me through. And today, in that moment, you helped me let go, You gave me strength to let go of the bitterness. You_ were_ my strength. And you think I don't know how hard you fought, how hard you had to fight Mellie and Cy to keep today press-free; or that you were the one who explained everything to Karen and Gerry. And, you're the one who left the scotch out, because you're the only one that knows that the only time he told me he was proud was over this scotch, from this glass. You were there Olivia." He puts their hands, fingers interlaced, over his heart. "You were here. You are here, all the time. It's what got me through today; it's what gets me through most days. I needed you by my side and you were; you were right here."

She lifts her head from the crook of his neck and kisses him softly, their lips barely touching. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry he died. But, more than that, I'm sorry for everything he didn't do when he was alive. You deserved a better dad." And she kisses him again, this time it's deeper – they're lost in the moment. She pulls away, but doesn't get up; no she stays there. She stays with him. For the night. That one night. Her head on his chest; steady heartbeat under her ear, his arms wrapped around her, hers around his waist. They stay like that.

_For one night, she lets him keep her near; she eases away his fears; he holds her tight_ – even if it's just for that one night.

But as the morning sun breaks up the cloak of the night they both refuse to look up, refuse to lift their heads, to pull apart their hands – they refuse to acknowledge that this love, theirs, is a creature of night; creation of the dark. They refuse to acknowledge that they are not what's right; not worthy of daylight. But the sky becomes pink, and then a soft lavender, until it's barely holding the bright blue at bay.

"We should get up. Go inside." She says it, but she doesn't move.

"We should." He says with a soft smile, pulling her even closer; holding her tighter in his arms. He kisses the top of hear head, smiling, but the smile – it's sad.

It's her that pulls away. It's always her. It's always her that has enough strength to pull away. He thinks it's a strength. She knows it's a weakness. It's fear. Fear of losing her white hat, because this, this can't be right; they can't be right – something this perfect can't be right; not for mere mortals. She gets up and extends her hand, she pulls him up as well. For a minute they just stand there; lost in each other's eyes, searching for a light, a light that can stay with them beyond the night, a light to help them through the daylight.

It's a creature of night, their love. Hidden away in their minds; there, it feels so right.


	6. Daylight - Pt1

**OK, so this isn't really from the trail. It's Another request. It's a two-part for bed-bath-and-beyond and the aftermath. This one is for ****_Read All About it_**** By Emely Sande and the second part will be another request for ****_Are We There Yet_****, by Ingrid Michaelson (which I'll hopefully update tomorrow). **

* * *

There is a mark on the right side of her neck. Small and faint; barely there – yet. She looks at it and for the first time she feels no guilt. A trace of him, but no trace of guilt. He chose her; he earned her and she let him. By letting him do it, she chose him, earned him, too. So she looks at it, traces it softly with her fingertips, the reflection in the mirror, smiling. Happy. It feels strange, it's foreign; it feels terrifying. But before she can panic, before she can get lost inside her head; he walks in and she gets lost in him, instead.

He pulls her in; arms around her waist, the right one moving up slowly to cup her breast. She can feel his heart beating softly against her back; or maybe it's just the rhythm of hers – threatening to escape from her chest. It's not used to this – this level of emotional openness, unguarded proximity; belief in a promise, reckless hoping. He kisses her neck; smiling as he reaches her ear; he lingers for a moment, taking the time to take it in, to take her in – because he can, because they have time to take.

The hot water in the shower doesn't feel like burning; no it's soothing. Nothing hurts when they're together, no, they occupy each other's mind; they take the pain away, even if it's just temporary, just for a moment.

"Hi." And she smiles. It's a broken smile. A smile she never lets anyone see; a smile that lets the hope in; that lets the love in – a smile that begins the healing. It's a smile for him, because of him; because of what he did; he _earned _it. He earned the smile and the love; he earned the trust. And she lets him know, with a simple – "Hi." It's their word, their code; a symbol of their love. Full of beginnings; so focused on the promise of a fresh start; so focused on ignoring the possibility, the imminence of a goodbye. It was always a beginning of a countdown, sand falling quickly to the bottom of the hourglass; but now, now it's a hello, said to forever, a hello to a limitless love – it's a hello to all this time. It's a different Hi – it's about welcoming the future; no longer holding onto the past.

They lie in bed. In_ her_ bed, in _her_ place, not in a hotel. Their rushed breaths echoing through _her _flat; not bouncing off of the walls of an electrical closet; or a city-hall toilet. They're no longer a secret, no, they're real. He earned her and she chose him; in spite of everything, despite everything – that makes them real. And that, the realness of it, the shift from mere possibility, to _this_ – to him falling asleep next to her and knowing she'll still be there in the morning; it's wonderful, to him; to her it's wonderfully unsettling. He earned her and she chose him; but she hadn't thought about what that means. She loved him for doing what he did; she loved him, she loves him; she chose him, but she was too lost in the moment, her thoughts too blurred by emotions; her mind lost in his eyes; she chose him – but what does that mean?

She can't sleep. Their love, it was always so private; so closely guarded. They could get lost in each other, in the moment, because it was always just them, no one else; no expectations, no pretense. Their love, so secretive – could it exist differently; could they still be them, could it stay the same if everything else were different? Even if all they have are stolen moments, there's magic in them, fire that might be extinguished by life. What if they're only meant to exist in a bubble, away from the lights. She smiles. He's asleep, but his arm is still possessively wrapped around her hip, and he lets out the most adorable grunt when she tries to get up. What if secrecy was always a part of the appeal; what if the impossibility made them feel; what if the sound of time ticking away mercilessly made them breathe in sync? She can't sleep, and suddenly his arm feels heavy.

She can feel him waking up and she pretends to be asleep, leaving a small smile on her lips, to greet him – their first "good morning". He, he just looks at her – she doesn't look at peace, she looks worried; her smile, he can tell it's a mask. So he lays a soft kiss on her lips, and she deepens it, without thinking. No, that's not how they are – at their primal, their basic, there's no thinking, it's instinct – like breathing. The instinct; him, overpowering – again, she's lost in him; her mind not her own, her mind is his; he takes away her worries; he is her temporary fix.

She looks at her mark. It's darker in the daylight. But she still smiles; the guilt gone. They get ready, Cyrus is waiting. They get ready, so domesticated. It's the little things – it's sharing the sink, finishing her cup of coffee instead of his; the little things. It's watching each other get dressed in daylight; their eyes locked across the room, following each other's every move. They take their time – he buttons her blouse up, instead of ripping it off; she runs her fingers through his hair – trying to get the curls to obey, rather than getting lost in them – they take their time to get familiar with this strange new reality of daylight. He kisses her and she walks him to the door. It's a goodbye, no longer a – Hi, and it's kind of magical – this promise of a future, a promise of goodbyes to come – each one more familiar; in each one, more love.

He's gone. And she's alone. But, not really, she's not. He's still with her. He's still in her mind. It's no longer running wild. She's no longer terrified. No, they had a morning; their love has seen daylight. It's not just a secret; not just moment and glances in hallways; it's not just bruises on her hips and leaving at the crack of dawn with swollen lips. No, it's a visible mark; it's waking up; it's having breakfast; it's crosswords and small-talk; it's the mundane; it's every-day; it's goodbyes that come with a promise of many more to come. It's magical. So she's fine. She's ready. For anything. For the public; for the press; for the bursting of the bubble; for the mess. She's ready; she can do it for him; because he, he is her temporary fix.

* * *

**I hope you liked that, and if you have any ideas/requests PM me, as I've run into a bit of a difficulty with Another Chance that can't even be categorized as a writer's block, because there's nothing to be blocked, my mind is literally stuck. The point being, if you have requests for one-shots, while my brain ponders Another Chance let me know :)**


	7. Daylight - Pt2

_**Another request - **_**_Are we there yet_**_**, by Ingrid Michaelson. I wish finale ended differently, but it didn't; so here's me trying to find my way around Olivia's brilliant and brilliantly messy mind. **_

* * *

_"Use your superpower."_

She lets the hot water run down her body, lifting her arm slowly, watching the little droplets roll off her fingertips. She closes her eyes and breathes in the steam, air in the shower impossibly thick.

_"Use your superpower." _

She steps out, and wraps herself in a towel; it's soft and comforting, big enough to hide in, disappear in. She looks into the mirror, but all she sees is a faint outline, someone she doesn't recognize; a shell that could be anyone, no one. Her palm touches the cool glass and pushes the steam away, creating a circle for her face, a whole in the white veil. She smiles – she came up with a plan. She stayed up all night; she strategized and she came up with a plan. A brilliant plan, a plan that will work; a plan that will let him run, that will let him divorce Mellie, a plan that will let him have everything, all he's ever wanted; a plan that lets him have her, a plan that lets him marry her. Suddenly, the reflection in the mirror is no longer smiling, she just stares as the steam gathers again; stares as it distorts her face. She can't breathe because she can't see; can't see herself, all she sees is them.

She collapses onto the bed; the sheets still smell like him; like sex, like love – intoxicating. She can't breathe. The towel, it's no longer comforting; it's restraining, suffocating – feels like disappearing. She sees the outfits – perfectly color-coded and pre-planned. Skirts, it's all skirts and pearls, strings of pearls. She sees the cameras, the flashes of light directed at her; suddenly she's the story; she's the thing to be fixed, the object. The secret service and the spotlight; the fish tank; no escape. And that house – everything so ornamental, tradition as a way of life. DAR, and tea-parties, luncheons and school-visits. She can't breathe. She can't do this. She can't dress to be unthreatening, appeasing; she can't be the story, she can't live the story; she doesn't want the spotlight, she enjoys the freedom of the dark. She is functional; she could never be ornamental and tradition, it's outdated, antiquated, not something to be forcefully maintained. And DAR, and tea-parties; luncheons and school visits – it's admirable, makes a difference; it's important and relevant; a job to be done – a job she'd hate; a job she wouldn't be good at. She came up with a plan. It's brilliant. It's answers to questions he hasn't even asked. It's the perfect plan. It's perfect for him. But for her, it ends with her becoming someone else; someone she'd hate.

_They car glides effortlessly through the DC streets; city light dancing across her face, reflecting in her eyes. But she doesn't see. She doesn't see the lights, or the passing cars. She closes her eyes, her forehead against the cool glass, and she sees their hands touching over the parchment; her eyes telling him she loves him, but for the first time so are her lips; she's telling him; their fingertips meeting, brushing lightly – together: they're in this together, him and her. "I love you", she says with a soft smile, it just rolls off her tongue now, repeating it easy once she's said it out loud. He moves closer and kisses her temple, "I love you too." She shifts from her seat, shifts towards him; he pulls her in. Her eyes still closed, she just listens slowly – to his heart's steady beat. And he just holds her, his hand running up and down her arm; he lets her get lost in her mind. He holds her and lets her be, lets her process the magnitude of the moment; he just holds her, completely unselfishly; because it steadies her as much as it steadies him. It's the only time she dreams._

_She dreams of him holding her, forever, like this. She can see them, grey and old, sitting on a porch, his arm around her – they're splitting the papers, arguing over the crossword. They're domesticated and adorable; elderly and charming; they're feisty and endearing. They're everything, the perfect pair. It's simple, it's quiet, it's just them. Just them, in a warm embrace as a soft breeze tickles their skin. It's simple, it's quiet, it's just them – it's perfect. She opens her eyes and moves her head higher, until her lips are touching his – the soft kiss distracting them from a pin, falling. _

It's the only time she let herself dream. The only time and it was of a simple life, a quiet life, with him; just him, none of the rest of it. She dreamt of the end-game, of where they'd be, once old and grey; but she didn't dream of the-in-between. She didn't dream of the life that's messy, so very publicly; she didn't dream of juggling, conflicting interests and conflicting dreams; she didn't dream giving up her life to be with him; no, that was never a part of the dream. They were always a dream; her dream, it could be perfect: the perfect version of them, of him – none of it had to be real. Except, now, now she can't breathe, because she realizes she wants the dream, more than she wants the reality. She can handle the dream; she can handle the predictability of disappointment, but she can't handle the trials of the moment, the constant battle that is life. She needs time; time they don't have, time he doesn't have. She needs time to process.

Her phone rings. It's him. His voice brings back the dream, mixes it with reality. They breathe in sync; she breathes – she can finally breathe, with him. She hangs up and she wants this, the ease of breathing, the ease of being; the ease that comes with him. She wants it. So she gets ready; she gears up for the day – there'll be dragons for her to slay, there'll be demons to fight, demons to keep at bay. She gets ready – her mind clear, her heart convinced, she wants him. She gets ready – her super-powers in full gear. And she doesn't turn them off until a man in her office shatters her thoughts, until he knocks Him off his pedestal. And suddenly she realizes the reality, it's too real – the imminence of it, the difficulty – it's too real. She wants the dream: her life, but with him. The only way for her to keep her super-powers is to stay who she is. And in that moment she knows that his, his power is– he's intoxicating; he's like a pill. He makes her forget all about her fears, he makes her focus on how much she loves him. He has a power to cloud her mind, to make her forget, even if just for a moment, how much she's afraid. But to save herself, to save her superpowers, she has to fight his – so she lets go of the love and she lets in the fear.


	8. Lost and Found (Hope)

**A request by the lovely Evoria for ****_Lost & Found_**** by Lianne. My take on 2x13/2x19.**

* * *

_And I felt strong enough_

_I was discovered by the love_

_I had been waiting for so long_

_You told me none of that was real_

Olivia Pope is not hopeful. She doesn't believe in hope. She doesn't believe in its magic, in its holy healing. She sees danger in dreaming. The possibilities, they distract from reality. Hope, she sees it as vulnerability. But, now, walking towards him, that's all she feels – hope; the taste of dreams.

She believes she can do this. Not the picket-fence and two-sting pearl necklaces; but waking up next to him, every morning, sharing the papers over coffee; letting him in, counting on him, trusting him; going to bed every night – smiling. Christmases and anniversaries; arguments over doing dishes. She can do this. She can settle for ordinary; for holding hands and sharing a bed. She can do this. But it's terrifying. She's never loved anybody without hurting. She's never known love, without pain, without wanting more than she could have. Always something more. Always gaping emptiness. She's never known a love not devastating in its enormity; she's never known love – ordinary. But she wants it, with him, she'll wait for it.

Her voice is strained. Strained from hope; the burden of undreamt dreams breaking it. He doesn't look at her as she speaks. No he stares at the pages of eulogy – focusing on the end, as she offers him a beginning, a dream. She speaks, but he doesn't hear. No, he's trying to understand death; the way they died the moment he uttered – _Olivia_; the moment she stumbled from the pedestal. How they died, the moment she became human; her humanity shattering the dream.

His words sting. Venomously. They spread through her body, paralyzing. They enter every muscle, every bone – they burn; they burn her alive.

_Mistress._

Mistress. Political suicide.

Mistress. But all she hears is mistake.

Mistress.

He walks away. She was a mistake. He walks away. All she has is pain. No love. Just pain.

It's a beautiful eulogy. Uplifting. Celebrating life, instead of mourning death. But all she feels is emptiness. There's nothing to celebrate. The way they died – quietly, in a church corner, before they could even begin; before they got a chance to live. Was it real? The hotel rooms and the lingering touches; the rushed kisses and covered-up marks; the entangled bodies in the sweaty sheets – was any of it real. Were the dreams? All she has is grief; the long mourning; because they, they never got to live. No, they were a fantasy. Hope. Her vulnerability.

He walks away. She stays. He leaves her alone.

There's something soothing about empty churches. The promise of lost souls being found; of forgiveness within reach; of cleansing. There's something soothing about reality; about pain so great that it's numbing. There's something soothing about no longer hoping; heart shattered can no longer be broken.

/

He's saying things. Things she doesn't want to hear; things of dreams, of shattered dreams.

She's everything, but that's not how she feels.

He's saying things. Things she can't hear; promises, broken promises.

He's saying things. He's giving her hope. Hope she's grieved; hope she's mourned.

He's saying things. Things she's been wanting to hear; things of dreams, of dreams that live. She turns around. She's kissing him. She's kissing away his tears.

"I'm sorry." And he is. And she knows. She believes him. But she still leaves him.

It's about hope. It's always been about hope. Elusive. It's a creature in our minds. It hides from the dark, it hides; fragile. Oh, so, fragile. A creature so easily gone. So easily lost, never to be found. A creature in our minds, but a creature of our hearts. Broken; it never heals, not really – scars that remain.

"I can't do this anymore." It's not about love. It's never been about love. She will love him until the day she dies. That's what makes it painful, and difficult, and devastating – it's life-changing and extraordinary. She will never stop loving him. She can't. But she's done hoping. Because love; love hurts; but it's the pain she knows; it's the pain she enjoys. Hope, hope is different. Hope lost feels like brokenness, not like pain. It feels like sadness, not just absence of happiness. She can't do that again. She can't. Imagine the picket fence, and hear the mundane arguments; taste the chaste kisses, and feel the soft touches. She can't. Because losing the dream, shatters the reality. The broken pieces, too sharp; the wounds too deep – she's still bleeding. She keeps on bleeding.

She walks away. He stays. She leaves him alone.

Her back against the cool door, she realizes – she, too, is all alone.


	9. In My Veins

**Another request (for post-debate Liv feels) and I chose the song (by Andrew Belle). **

**_Everything will change_**

**_Nothing Stays the same_**

**_Nothing here's perfect_**

**_Oh, but everyone's to blame_**

* * *

Water; it blocks the outside noise, but it doesn't block his voice. No.

_I am a man in love with an incredible woman._

A stroke. Her muscles ache. But the pain, the pain is the only thing that can distract her from him. So she pushes; pushes through it. Flip. And again. The cool water. Floating. Drowning.

_He is looking at her and for a moment she is lost in his eyes. For a moment she forgets about the debate; she forgets about the numbers and the right answers. For a moment she forgets about the impossibility and just focuses on him. She smiles at him. She smiles. Not because he said the right thing; not because he scored points. She smiles at him because he did what she couldn't; what she wasn't brave enough to. She smiles because he is looking at her. Only her, in a crowded room. She smiles because he is saying it to her; he is saying it for her. But the moment is gone. The man next to her breaks her out. And she nods. She claps. She smiles. No longer lost in his eyes, no longer found. She smiles. Alone in a crowded room. Terrified. She smiles._

_And she smiles for the rest of the night, when all she wants is to hide. She needs time. She needs time to think. Time away from him; away from his eyes, and away from the way he smiles at her reassuringly; away from the gaze that strips her down to her very core, that leaves her vulnerable and exposed. She needs a moment to herself. A moment for her mind to breathe, without him; without his presence – overwhelmingly intoxicating. Her reason needs space and distance. He, he is too far gone; but she, she can still walk away form him. She just needs a moment to think. _

_He smiles at her; the only one in the crowd. He smiles as he says it and he smiles for the rest of the night. He smiles. A burden lifted from his shoulders, a noose looser around his neck. He knows, this, this could break them; it could destroy this fragile thing they have, but he smiles anyway. Because for a moment, for a moment she smiled at him and her smile, unguarded for the first time, it was magical. He smiles, because he made her smile. But she, she avoids his eyes; she avoids his gaze; she stays away. And it stings. The first sting of many. _

_He can see her plastered smile disappear as the doors start to close; he can see her shell is back up and he is, once again, on the outside. So he pushes in, his hand blocking the door; her eyes seeking out hers; connecting._

_He stands next to her, his head turning to hers, instinctively. He inhales her. Reflex. Nothing more to it. She turns away, survival – she can't look at him, and they both know it. She can't look at him and not get lost in him._

_He moves his hand towards hers. Slowly. Oh, so, slowly. Afraid that if he makes a sudden move she will back away, she will walk away. Afraid. Their knuckles are almost touching, as electricity surges through him._

_She's trying. Trying to not look at him. To not touch him. To not let him in. She is trying. But his scent – intoxicating and she can feel his eyes, the gaze ever-so-piercing. She can feel it burning; burning her skin. She can feel his knuckles, almost brushing against hers; her fingers twitching involuntarily – electricity. She knows, she knows she should move, step away, get some space; but she can't. She's afraid; she's afraid that moving, moving will scare him; it will break whatever this is. In that moment all she wants to do is touch him; feel his skin, the warmth, the softness of it; the imperfections and the scars, the faint lines. She wants to feel _him_, not just the electricity. _

_There is a loud "ding". It breaks everything. He walks away looking back; looking at her. And she collapses; her own presence suddenly exhausting. Because for a while, for a moment in that elevator she was gone, she was, once again, lost in his eyes; as her hand sought out his; as she yearned for a touch that could ruin everything. For the first time in her life the white hat feels too heavy; for the first time in her life she hates it. She's breaking. Or maybe, she's just healing. Her very existence feels so very heavy, because she's realizing – it's tied to his. She can't walk away from him._

"Hi."

It's her mind, playing tricks on her. It's because she's tired. It's-.

It's him.

Suddenly she can't breathe. Her heart is beating too fast; it's too loud; it's clouding her mind. Her lungs are shutting down, no longer expanding, no they're collapsing. Her body; it's limp, floating; no longer cutting through water, now it's being carried by it, rocked by it, swallowed by it. Defeated. She can't breathe. She reaches for the edge, avoiding his gaze; reaches, but misses it; suddenly too weak.

"Don't come in." Is all she can utter. She sounds weak. Damn-it. She hates herself for it. She hates the way he can reduce her to this; the way he can disarm her mind with a simple, "Hi."

He stops. He stops at the edge of the pool, looking down at her. He kneels. Guilt. Guilt is all he feels. Guilt he said it; guilt he meant it.

"I'm sorry."

And he is. So sorry, that he's doing this to her; that he can't let her be. Sorry that he's married and sorry that she feels the same way about him. Sorry that he's running and sorry that he's winning. Sorry that she fixed him.

Sorry that he broke her.

He's drowning. Drowning in guilt and he can't breathe. His heart is beating in his ears; thudding loudly, making it impossible to hear anything but the water, splashing. He's inhaling, but there is no air; no air in his lungs; no air in his brain. His body, suddenly limp, weak; his skin burning against the concrete. He wants to collapse, to lie down; put his head on the cool cement; but he can't bring himself to look away. She looks so scared. So small; her body floating in the water. She looks defeated. She looks weak. And he hates himself for it. He holds on to the edge of the pool; his fingertips grazing the cool water.

Her hand reaches for his.

It hovers. Within reach. But too afraid; to move, to touch him. Too afraid of what it would mean; of what she would feel.

They just stare at the pool; at their hands, a mere fraction of an inch away. They can feel the heat of the other's skin, radiating, burning. It takes them everything; all their strength, to keep them apart; to stop their fingers from touching. Everything. They just stare at them; the lights make their skin glow; the pale blue makes it look surreal; like a wonderful dream. The way the surface is so broken, uneven; reflections dancing on their skin; playing tricks on them; blurring the distance. Are they touching, or is it just electricity? Is it her hand, or just water, moving, brushing against his skin? Is it his fingertips, or the warm air? He sees her hand tremble, or maybe it's just the water; maybe it's the lights, or the moonlight; but in that moment he knows – he has to walk away, for her; because this, this will ruin her. He moves, but before he can get up; a hand is wrapped around his wrist, firmly.

It startles him. How firm her grip is; how sure she suddenly seems; how alight her eyes are. It startles him how unfazed she is.

She can feel his pulse under her thumb and it calms her down. The beat of his heart; the rhythm, it steadies her, soothes her. She can tell he's startled; he's taken aback – he was ready, he would have done it, he would have walked away. But she, she couldn't let him. She's too far gone; she's already lost herself in him.

He pulls her up; helps her out. He wraps her in a towel; his hands never touching her skin. Because the one thing they both now realize; as they avoid each others' eyes, terrified – their touch, it's intoxicating; it's their drug.


	10. Waiting

**This one isn't a request. Just my mind running wild. I blame the summer heat. It's for Kronos, who seems to like my drabbles and whose review inspired my brain to work :) **

* * *

She is waiting for him.

The curtains in the hotel room flutter in the warm summer breeze; rippling through space, the ghostly whiteness breaking up the darkness of the night. She shivers. Not because it's cold. It's not. She shivers because _she_ is cold. Because the breeze against her skin makes her notice the absence, the absence of him. She looks at the clock on the nightstand, the numbers ominously glowing in the dark – forty minutes past midnight. She sighs. She's tired. Her eyelids heavy; but not as heavy as her eyes. Heavy with unshed tears for the undreamt dreams.

She is waiting for him and she hates herself for it. She hates herself for wanting him; because let's be clear, she doesn't need him; no this is want – this is primal, it's hungry kisses; it's bruises and small, butterfly-like bites; it's their hips moving in unison, their hands pushing against the bathroom door. It's him filling her up, making her come apart; it's him easing her pain momentarily, making her feel less empty. It's him. _Knocking_.

"I'm sorry." It's all he says. He could explain. Explain he had a fight with Mellie; explain that he lay next to her waiting for her to fall asleep; explain that he couldn't just leave. But he doesn't explain. It would make no difference.

She just looks at him. She doesn't say anything. She knows. She knows why he's late. She knows his wife is here; she knows he lay next to her; she knows she fell asleep next to him. And it stings. She has no right. But her gut; it feels like it's being ripped out; the regret in his eyes, the way the sorry rolls of his tongue so effortlessly, sculpted to perfection by the number of times he'd said it. It stings and her insides feel like they're burning. Burning and disappearing all at the same time. So she doesn't say anything. No, instead she kisses him. _Those hungry kisses_.

Open mouthed. Their lips, their lips barely touching. Their tongues battling. The hungry kisses. And the angry touches. The way she clings to his shirt, before ripping it; the way she bites his shoulder; the way her nails dig into his back. Anger. At him, at herself. Hate. She hates _them_. She hates the hunger and the anger; she hates the hate; she hates how good he feels, how good he makes her feel; she hates the way her tongue gliding against the creases of his lips carries intimacy; she hates that she revers it.

And he pushes. Pushes until it hurts. Until her lungs give out and her eyes fall shut. Pushes until the hurt feels too good. He collapses next to her and rolls on his back. Their chests heaving, their eyes fixed on the ceiling. Avoiding. Forgetting. Forgetting how good it feels.

He kisses her cheek. He lingers. For a moment, his lips on the soft skin. Her eyes on the ceiling. Her body stiff. Intimacy. Her eyelids heavy, closing; the eyes heavy – the unshed tears falling. He feels them, feels the droplets on her skin, feels them against his lips. He just kisses the trail up to her eyes. Laying feather-light kisses on her eyelids. No hungriness in the kisses, no anger in the touches. He's kissing her tears away, but he's not easing her pain. No, the intimacy burns her instead. The fleeting intimacy. Because she knows, she knows that with the sunrise it will come to the end; that it will die as soon as they leave the bed; they will burn in the sunlight, and she will die with _them_. He will leave and she will stay, all alone. Waiting. Waiting for him. And a glimpse of intimacy.

But tonight, she gives in. She gives into the soft kisses; she presses her lips to his; she _feels_ the creases, the crevices; the imperfections of the warm rims. She touches his skin with her fingertips; oh-so-lightly; she feels him shiver, shiver because of the warmth; shiver because his skin burns as well, burns from the anger and the hate; shiver because her touch takes the heaviness away. Tonight she gives in. Tonight, the make love. Their fingers intertwined; pushing into the mattress; as their eyes shut, as their bodies heave; in sync.

She lies on her side, perfectly molded to his. Perfectly. His fingertips trail her arm, and her knuckles brush against his cheek, barely – committing the lightness to memory. The impossible lightness.

They don't sleep. No, tonight they can't afford to dream. If they did, tonight, they'd never wake up.

She is waiting for him. She is waiting for him to leave. The faint sunlight creeping in. She is waiting for him to leave. The imminence of it suffocating. And he does. He gets up. Avoiding her eyes. He gets up. He gets his shirt from the floor. His pants. He puts his shoes on. He kisses her temple. He walks to the door. He turns the handle. A click. A click: the death of intimacy.

The curtains flutter in the momentary draught. They fly in, they fly up; breaking up the stillness of the ceiling; breaking up the simplicity. She closes her eyes. She shivers. The heaviness settling once again. The waiting.


	11. To Build a Home

**I got two requests for this song, so this is for the Anon and Misstresseoftheblack. **

* * *

It's been a long day. Too long. Too many times she thought of him, too many times she wanted to touch him, too many times she caught herself just looking at him – all blue eyes and a wide smile, idealism and charm, brilliant mind and a healing heart. Too many minutes apart; too many minutes of hiding in plain sight; too many minutes of wanting him and hating herself for it. It's too much; it's too exhausting. The yearning that paralyzes her; that defines her mood, that clouds her mind and breaks her heart; all at the same time. The pretending, that there is a future for them, that they're not spiraling down to their death; the pretending and the suffocating fear that one day she'll wake up and believe it, that she'll wake up and think that they're real. It's too much. It's overwhelming.

As she drags her feet along the flush carpet that muffles the clink of her heels, after all hotels are built for secrecy, for disappearing in dreams; clutching the keycard in her hand; she fantasizes of the hot shower she'll have, the water that burns the sins away; the warm bed, the soft covers to disappear under. She fantasizes of feeling new. Clean. Of shedding her own skin – it smells like him; it feels like a heavy burden of undreamt dreams and broken promises. The green light flashes and she hears the click; she leans on the door, pushing in.

"What are you doing here?" She's standing in the doorway, unable to move, unable to come in, her feet suddenly too heavy. The room is illuminated by candles, the flames dancing, the shadows moving across the walls, like unholy ghosts. He's sitting on the floor, food and wine arranged on a small blanket. A picnic in a bubble. Just them.

He smiles, before he speaks; his eyes pleading, "Have a date with me, Livvy."

"Fitz…" She should say no, she should send him out, send him on his way; this – it's too perfect. It's too easy to pretend it's real; too easy to pretend he is. She should build up her fences and hide behind her walls; pull off the routine practiced to perfection; she should push him, and push until he leaves – protect herself; save him – her deity. But she's too tired, too weak; she spent the whole day missing him; whole day wanting him; her whole life needing him. So she steps in and closes the door behind her as she kicks off her heels. She walks over to him and lays a soft kiss on his lips as she kneels. He pulls her in, between his legs; her back against his chest. She feels his heartbeat; a sigh of relief; a breath he's been holding. He inhales her: her scent, her presence, her being – his whole life waiting, inhaling, remembering. He kisses her neck, and whispers in her ear; his breath a warm tickle against her skin – "So tell me about your day."

It's so simple. So tempting. A perfect impossibility. But for a moment, they pretend.

They pretend she's not a mistress and he's not running for president; they pretend the hotel room is more than that; it's a home – for _them_. Their presence is all it takes; their presence builds a home for them.

He hands her a glass of wine and his hand lingers for a moment; because they have time, time to touch, to linger, to pretend. To draw lines against skin, and to kiss softly with their lips barely touching, to whisper little nothings.

"So what's your favorite memory from high school?" He asks as he nuzzles his head into the crook of her neck; tightening his arms around her.

"Why high school?" She turns around and smiles, kissing him quickly, before she brushes her knuckles against his cheek.

"It's a date thing. We're on a date. And on a date you ask about things like that. The little things, inconsequential memories; small pieces, specs of life; because there's time, time to find the rest of it out; time to discover the hopes and the dreams, the scars that are buried deep. So on a date, you start off with the little things."

She just looks at him; her throat tightening. They'll never get to share the big things. They'll never get to share the hopes, to tell the dreams – because they know what they are, and they bury them deep. They'll never get to share the burdens, to heal the scars. They'll never get to the big things. Because this, this is ending; crashing, really. They'll never get to have the big things. So, she closes her eyes and gives him this.

"It was when we won the championship. Swimming. I was the captain of the swim team. And I remember the last lap. When I'd come up, there'd be noise, chaos; but then it would be so perfectly quiet in the water – just the sound of my body, moving. I've never felt more at peace than then. I just-" But suddenly she feels nauseous and she's getting up, running towards the bathroom. She stumbles on her knees, hugging the toilet bowl tightly. She can feel her stomach muscles clench, the acid traveling up, until it's burning her mouth, she's coughing it out; her lungs on fire, the bitter aftertaste eating away at her palate. She hears his footsteps on the tiles, but she doesn't look up. She just leans her head on her forearm, and closes her eyes. And again, the clenching of the stomach and the flame that travels up.

Karma. Karma is all she can think. She's sleeping with him, and that's why she got food poisoning. She's sleeping with him; she's screwing him in hotels, in restaurant bathrooms, in unmarked cars. She's whispering his name, like a prayer – a name that's not hers to whisper. She's watching, waiting, for a man that's not hers to have. Karma. And she collapses on the cool floor, the bitterness no longer burning her throat, it's burning her soul instead.

He sits down, his back against the cool wall, his legs stretched out and he pulls her head on his lap. "Are you-" He can't say it; he can't even think it. It's a slippery slope from thinking to dreaming, to believing – to wanting. And he can't want this. He can't want _their_ baby. He can't. So he doesn't finish the sentence; it just hangs in the air, filling the space between them; the undreamt dreams, the pretending torched to the ground by a simple impossibility.

"No."But the truth is, even if she was; she wouldn't tell him. And that, that realization lets her build her walls up slowly. Their home, crumbling. She spends the whole night vomiting; spitting up her soul; and he holds her hand through it; he holds her hair and he massages her back. He follows her to the hell and back; but even with him – it's still a tortuous ordeal. The moon sets and the darkness wanes, the sun rising at too quick a pace.

"You have to go." She says as she gets up, laying her palms flat against the polished sink.

"I'm staying."

"Don't be silly." Because him, taking care of her – it's just that, it's silly; it's pretend.

"I'll come up for lunch."

"Don't. I'll be fine." She won't. She can feel her stomach clenching again; but she defies her instincts, for him – to save him.

He leaves.

She crumbles to the floor again, crawls into a ball.

He's gone. The candles burnt out. The hotel room, it no longer feels like home – it feels like prison. A prison of broken reflections.


	12. Time

**This wasn't a request. Just my mind toying with the idea of time and what it feels like when you're constantly battling it.**

* * *

It's forty minutes past midnight. She's sitting in a chair, her arms wrapped around her legs, her head resting on her knees. She's wearing his shirt, and she shouldn't be; she's watching him sleep, when she should be waking him. The shirt, it will smell like her, like midnight breeze and swollen lips, like faint bruises on her hips, like the darkness that swallows her fears; like soft whispers and a shared pillow. It will smell like secrets and stolen moments, like shared dreams that never could be. She should awake him; he should leave, but instead she just watches him sleep. She watches him sleep, listens to him breathe, his breaths the sound of time ticking.

Time is a funny thing. It makes us face our humanity, our fragility, our limit. Everything about time, everything, is so very human. The way we measure it, group it, add it and deduct it; interpret it; the way we give it meaning, so much meaning. Our lives, so often they are a measure of time, a reflection of years past. But they, they're not mere mortals, they don't measure their lives in time, they measure their existence in love. A minute is a lifetime in his eyes, it's her future and her past, her fear and her love. A minute is warm breath on her neck, it's peppered kisses and soft bites, the teeth scraping the skin, the familiar tongue soothing it. A second is a touch, knuckles brushing as they stand near, eyes meeting across the crowded room; a smile that's just for her. And then, then there are the moments of infinity. The moment when the hitched breath leaves her body, her toes curling; the moment his head falls on her shoulder, the moment he nuzzles into the crook of her neck. They are one, for a moment; intertwined, sweaty limbs under the tangled sheets, chests heaving; happy, for a moment of infinity; a moment when time stands still. When all there is are her eyes and his smile; the fingertips gently tracing the bruises, smiling. Because for a moment, they don't need more – more of each other, more time, more love; for a moment, they're enough, just right. And then it's back to seconds, to minutes, to hours, waiting.

He stirs awake and rubs his eyes, trying to adjust to the dark. She's sitting in a chair by the window, looking at him, smiling. But she's not happy, no, he can tell, wistfulness in the smile, melancholy in her eyes.

"What are you thinking?"

"How many kisses make a night."

"Not enough." It's his way of letting her know, letting her know that she's not alone, that he understands, that he wishes it were different; that he too, measures time in moments. He gets up, puts on his jeans then walks over to where she's sitting. He kisses her temple and gets down on one knee, shuffling through the pocket of the jacket hanging loosely from the arm of the chair. He pulls out a black box and puts it in her hands, "But, Livvy, even a lifetime with you wouldn't be enough."

She knows it's not a ring. She knows. The box is too big, and he's married. She knows it's not a ring. But her heart, her heart still beats like crazy; her fingers shaky as she opens it. A gold watch, the time ticking away, as she stares at it; as her fingers trace it, play with it; the metal cool against her warm skin. She takes it out, mesmerized; she runs her thumb over the glass, then turns it around. Her fingers stop moving as she feels the faint imperfections against her skin. She brings it closer, almost to the tip of her nose, trying to make out the perfectly weaved letters in the dark. _One minute at a time._

"Fitz…" It's all she can say; all other words insufficient. But he knows, he can see it in her eyes; he can hear it in her voice – the appreciation; the love; the understanding of a promise. A promise of a time when they won't have to hide, a promise of a time when they'll love in daylight, as much as they love at night; a promise of a life.

"Happy birthday." With that she's kissing him. And it's hungry and deep; her tongue telling him the things she couldn't speak.

They lie on the bed, waiting for the first signs of the morning sun. The sound of time ticking away interrupting their labored breaths. And suddenly, it feels like there isn't enough time, and there's too much of it, all at once. Right now, they need more, because the sky, there's already a faint light, breaking up the night in the distance. But they also need it to move faster, to speed up, to fly, to jump – jump to the end of time; to them walking together, hand in hand.

He gets up and gets dressed again. He puts on his shirt, and it smells like her. It smells like dawn and the soft morning sun; like her head on his chest and her fingers in his hair; like the purple bite on her shoulder, like the tenderness of his tongue soothing it. It smells like promises, and perfect moments, like a dream that will be. He leaves with a soft kiss, and she stays, all alone, sitting in the familiar chair. Her shirt feels too heavy, she misses his – it smelled like him, when she wore it the time stood still. Now, now she stares at her watch, the mechanical hands moving effortlessly across the cool face – the time ticking away at a foreign pace. No longer measured in moments, in breaths, in thoughts; no longer in feelings, in things so intimately theirs; no now, their love has a ticking sound. It's suddenly human – fallible and imperfect, perishable. It makes them human.

/

Cy hisses into her ear and she crumbles to the floor. He can't win, not on his own. She puts her head in her hands, the reflection in the hallway mirror looking back at her, broken. The sound of the time ticking away; the sound of love, overwhelming. They need more time. She needs more time, to fix this. But it ticks away, mercilessly. He needs this. He needs to win. And as she says yes, three days later, a lone tear glides down her cheek. She hears the soft sound of the mechanic hands moving, but she can't look at them, afraid that the polished glass will reflect her face. It's no longer a reminder of love, it's a constant reminder of betrayal.

Tick.

She trails her fingertips along the paper, pausing as she touches the pin. She's leaving him. The sound of death, the blood on their hands, is drowning out the sound of time; the sound of love. She's fallen, but he's still standing. Waiting. For one day; for their time to come. But she knows, suddenly, a truth burning in the depths of her belly; her gut screaming – mere mortals like her don't get a happy ending. She knows now, finally, she can't bend time to her will.

Tick.

And she sees him a year later; and he seems happy, like maybe, he's no longer waiting, no longer dreaming. But then they dance, and he holds her and looks at her; like before; before the time was the enemy, before they could even measure it. And for a moment she believes, maybe.

Tick.

And he's in her doorway, and she's letting him in. The sound of his voice, of their breathing, echoing. The beginning. The back when, when hours were measured in deep kisses; in soft touches and rushed breaths. When a minute could be a lifetime, back when they could pretend. And she's sitting next to him, it's a plea; a plea to pretend, even if just for a moment. And her head is on his chest, and the only sound she hears is his heart beating. The sound of life, right now; the sound of them being enough. Pretending.

Tick.

She walks out of the White House, head held high, and a chipped heart. And he stays, and he pretends. And six months later he walks out of the restaurant and she breaks down, head in her hands; tears streaming down her cheeks. She can no longer pretend. She doesn't cry, she doesn't believe in crying. She's sobbing, she's drowning. She can't breathe. They used to breathe in sync, but now, now she cant breathe. The only sound to set her heart to, her breathing – the soft ticking.

Tick.

And it's chaos and noise, shots fired. And then silence. The quiet. The waiting. The waiting for him to stop, breathing, being. The sound of machines beeping. The sound of life, him, clinging on to something; holding on; fighting. And she lies next to him, holding his hand; the cool of the metal against the warmth of his skin. He hears the soft ticking; the sound of promises, of dreams.

Tick.

The church is quiet and the words echo through her mind – _mistress_; and they burn her insides; like poison they travel through her veins; into her every cell. They block out everything else; they block out the sound of time; the sound of love. And she slides the watch off of her hand and dives into the cool water; gliding; pushing; trying to soothe the burning. It helps for a moment, but then the words echo again, louder and louder; crumbling her psyche. She slips it back on – even if she can't hear it; even is she can't look at the reflective surface of the face; she needs it there. A reminder, that once he loved her enough to challenge time, for her, for them.

Tick.

21 minutes. He's looking at the clock and she's looking at him. She hears the ticking. It's quiet at first, faint, but it gets louder as the time goes on; louder the more she believes that he will do it; that time, again, will have meaning. And it ticks away perfectly, not too slowly and not too quickly; they aren't trying to bend it, they aren't greedy. They finally understand it, accept it – the infinity. They will never fade, never waver; their love will never die, never run out. So they, they can take their time. They can enjoy the moment, as they let the minutes pass.

But then Cy is telling her things in her office and her world is crumbling down. He killed her. He killed someone. He killed for her, for them. He killed for time, for the promise. He has fallen. And she knows; knows so well how unkindly the time treats those who fall from grace. So she has to, needs to save him; cleanse him of their original sin. They both need to stop being mere mortals, lost in love, lost in time. They need to stop waiting for an ending so that they can begin; they need to start living. They, they're more than this, they're more than waiting. They're more than a mere promise. And she stands in his office and tells him to start again; to run again; to do it right this time. To take his time, and she will take hers; and maybe one day, it they can have their time again. No longer borrowed, or stolen; theirs.

She fixes her lipstick before she leaves. Her thighs are still sticky as she walks away; the skin under her coat glistening with sweat. He watches her leave, as he fixes up his tie. His shirt, it smells like her, like a harsh light and bleeding lips; like angry kisses; like the day her fears came true; like the hurt in his voice and the crack in hers. It smells like the end; like shattered dreams that won't be. It also smells like a new beginning. A possibility.

As she gets ready for the run, she checks the time. But the watch, it's standing still, broken, no longer ticking. She smiles faintly. The same smile she had that night, wistful lips and melancholy in her eyes. She takes it off and puts the earphones in her ears – a new beat.

As the cameras flash, and the questions drown out all other sounds, she knows – they've run out of time. And as she's being pulled towards the black limousine, she thinks, maybe, maybe this is a beginning. Their beginning.


	13. Gravity

**So the lovely Zsaclar suggested the song (By Sara Bareilles), and my brain finally decided to start working. This is a sort of a sequel to****_ Incredible Love_****(a few people suggested I do one), but it also works as a one-shot.**

_You loved me 'cause I'm fragile_  
_When I thought that I was strong_  
_But you touch me for a little while_  
_And all my fragile strength is gone_

As the doctor talks about the pain; the pain that _it_ will feel, not she; she moves her hand unconsciously from her lap to her flat stomach. She shivers. Not because it's cold, or because she's cold; not because the words sting – they don't, she barely hears the condemnation, she shivers at the thought – would it have had his eyes? Cerulean. She'll never know. And that, that thought; the truth so utterly crippling in its finality, its simplicity, makes her shiver. The inside of her throat feels like sand paper; her mouth is dry, her saliva thick and sparse; a sharp pain in her temple, twist of a knife; her mind, her mind empty, yet abuzz as she thinks of the pair of cerulean eyes.

The doctor looks at her. Her eyes are not kind, they are not friendly and not mild – they're a fire of disapproval; judgment seeping through. But there's also sadness in them, pity even; she believes in what she's saying; she believes in the pain, in the innocence, that it's a life worth saving. "You don't have to do this, you know? There are other options." The doctor smiles. And her smile, her smile is soft, it's kind. She's trying, trying to help, to understand, to show her the way. She reaches for her hand; _she_ pulls it away; she pulls away. She gets up from the cold plastic chair and grabs her bag.

"I know my options, but this is my choice. So, if we're all done here, what time tomorrow?" She tries, tries so hard to keep her voice even, to hide the crack; to mask the pain, the grief. Because the doctor, she, she'll think it's regret. And it's not. She doesn't want this. She doesn't want it. She doesn't want a half-life built on shifting sands of lies; she doesn't want rushed phone calls and unsigned birthday cards; she doesn't want the gnawing hope that one day a dream will become reality – she doesn't want it, not for her child. Their love, it's too heavy a burden to carry; too heavy even for them; and for a child, for a child, the pain, the imperfections, the brokenness and the emptiness that only ever ceases momentarily, it would be too much; it would be scars too deep to ever heal. And she, she knows this; she knows how it feels.

She leaves. The warm September air makes her shiver. No, it's the cerulean eyes in her mind. Haunting. Pulling her into a dream, like gravity. She can't go back, back to the campaign, to the hotel, to him, to _them_ – there's too much left unsaid, too much hurt under the surface; too much resentment, too much simmering anger. There's too much pain. And too much love. Too little time. Too much to lose and not enough strength to fight. She can't go back and she has to wait. Wait for a day. 24 hours to consider, to think, to ponder – the pain, the life that couldn't be, the infinite possibilities. 24 hours for her mind to run wild, 24 hours to torture herself over a decision that she's already made. She goes to the park; the soft symphony of golden leaves, the way the light fractures as it hits the still water; the waltzing willow branches – it's meant to be soothing; it's meant to be an escape; an escape from today, from the 24 hours and the idea of a life past that. It's meant to be an escape. She sits on a bench and reads; his speech, they wrote it. It's perfect – idealistic and hopeful; a description of a future she'd want to live in, a future he could give. He's meant to do this; he's meant to be great, and happiness, happiness can wait.

The sound of soft giggles breaks her out and she looks down the neatly laid path – a mother pushing a stroller; a child with a wide smile and – cerulean eyes. She smiles quickly, faintly, cursing the lone tear that's rolling down her cheek. They pass; as will this – the pain in her chest that makes her feel like she's suffocating, that makes her feel like her ribs are puncturing her lungs; that too, will pass. She looks down the path and before she can think better of it she's getting up, walking, running almost, bending down and picking it up. A small pink shoe in a trembling hand. She yells, calls after them; but they're gone, too far gone. And she knows, but she doesn't stop. No, she yells until the screams are silent, until she's on the ground, crumbled. She doesn't cry. She picks herself up, brushes the yellow dirt off of her pants; straightens her back and lifts her head. She goes back to the bench and reads the speech again. She stays there until it's dark; until a moon line is stretching across the water; dancing to the pace of low waves. Her phone rings in her bag for the 12th time that day, and she knows, she knows it's him calling; she knows she should answer it, she knows he worries. But she's angry. She's angry at him, for loving her the way he does, for being the man he is, for being married; for hating herself because she fell in love with him. She's angry that he's not here, even though she told him not to be; she's angry he didn't fight her on this; she's angry he's being rational, that he loves her enough to be rational. She's angry and she resents him, for the way he feels, for the way he's made her feel. Because anger, anger and resentment, that's easy; it's consuming; it lets her not feel.

She checks into a hotel. She takes a hot shower. The water burns her skin and she relishes the feeling – for the first time since she found out the pain is physical, sharp, passing; not dull and gnawing. She doesn't sleep. She doesn't even try to, because every time she closes her eyes she sees – cerulean. She gets up at the crack of dawn, with the first signs of light. She waits until eight and then calls Cy, she needs him to pick her up. He won't judge, and he won't care, as long as it's handled, taken care of. He'll squeeze her shoulder and won't ask about the father, he won't care. He won't say it's OK, he'll say it's for the best. He'll drive her back and give her the rest of the day, and then, then he'll pretend it never happened. He agrees, and doesn't ask; she hangs up. Her finger hovers over his name for a moment – 15 missed calls, and 4 texts. But she, she doesn't know what to say. So she just shuts her phone off, once again, and heads for another burning shower. Because the pain, the slow-burn in her chest – it feels like death.

It's quick. She's numb and she doesn't feel it – the pain; only _slight discomfort_, they call it. It's done; over; finished. She just lies there, for another minute; staring at the ceiling; feeling empty. No longer angry, or resentful; no longer regretful; nothing; just empty. Too empty. And she puts her clothes on with shaky hands. Cy meets her outside; squeezes her shoulder and helps her to the car. He doesn't ask. He talks numbers on the way back, numbers and strategy. He talks and she nods her head; they both know she's not listening. He helps her to her room; he orders her food and then he leaves her; and for that, for that she's grateful. She pulls a NAVY shirt out of her suitcase, a pocket at the very bottom of it; and puts it on. She curls into a ball, disappearing under the covers.

He finds her like that. She awakes to the sound of footsteps on the soft carpet. He kneels down, next to the bed; brushing her cheek with his knuckles. "Hi."

And she wants to fight him, ask him how he got in, ask him to leave; but she can't; she doesn't have it in her – she's empty. And he, he pulls her in like gravity; when he's around she feels, she feels hope, and promise, she feels like maybe she could heal. His love – it pulls her in, like gravity. He climbs into bed with her, wraps her in his arms; lets them rest on her stomach. She utters a "Hi," and her voice cracks.

She cries. She falls apart. Because she can – in his arms.


	14. Wake up Alone

**Monday**

His scent is the first thing she forgets. Always.

She inhales, deeply, but her sheets no longer smell like him. Her sheets never smelled like him. Even after that night; the one night when they seemed like a possibility; even then – her sheets didn't smell like him. They smelled like them, like sex; like promises and possibilities; like fear. She lay on his chest and she inhaled. She tries to remember; _that_ scent. The familiar cologne; the one in her bathroom, tucked away carefully, at the back of the second shelf. The smell of coffee; freshly ground coffee. The smell of paper. The smell of her. She remembers. She has words; words for the perfect memories. She can describe feeling happy; she can describe it, but she can no longer feel it. She buries her face in the pillow. The one next to hers. _His_.

**Tuesday**

His eyes. Cerulean. That's it. They're cerulean blue. But then sometimes; sometimes they seem grey. On a quiet day; when the tree branches dance in the wind; in early spring; when the sky is white and not blue and the air is frisk, fresh; when he's relaxed. Then, then his eyes are grey. And not a dark grey, but light, she swears sometimes they seem transparent – a window into the soul. But whose, she wonders, as she lies in bed – his, or hers?

A window, or a mirror?

**Wednesday**

She fists the white sheets as her fingers move along her wet slit. She tries to remember the feel of him. His skin. The way it was sticky under her fingertips; the way it was sweet when she licked it. She tries to remember how his tongue tasted. The texture of it. She bites her lip. She flicks her clit. His lips. How they set her skin on fire. Every, single, inch. She raises her hips. She remembers the bruises. She remembers crying when they finally faded. She remembers being filled. She remembers the sweet pain and the shallow breaths. The way his flesh felt under her nails. The feel of his heavy forehead resting just above her breast. She comes. She cries. She remembers feeling alive. She feels empty now.

**Thursday**

His voice. The sound of his voice. The soft baritone. Rich and velvety, and it could make her knees go weak. His laugh. The sound of his laugh echoing though her flat. Guttal. His soft snores. She never knew. She never knew until _that_ night that he snored. She stayed up; for hours; listening to him. Intimacy. She remembers crying quietly, pearly tears rolling down her cheeks. She didn't understand then, not like she does now – she didn't mourn the loss of her life, she mourned the loss of her guard – sleeping next to him let her dream. That night; for the first time, she believed in the possibility. She doesn't cry now. No. Her tears have run dry.

She gets up. She turns on the TV. She listens to him speak.

**Friday **

She wraps herself in her covers; a cocoon. She hugs _his_ pillow and rests her head on the cool mattress. She misses lying next to him. The way her body would mold perfectly to his. The way her head could rest on his chest – his heart thumping under her ear. The way he would wrap her up in his arms. His right one sneaking around her back, wrapped around her waist; his left caressing her thigh. The way her fingertips would trace his skin, along his arm and down his chest. The way her leg would be thrown over his; her foot resting just under his knee. They fit perfectly.

She turns on her back. Then her other side. She doesn't sleep that nigh.

**Saturday**

She looks at the unfamiliar form in her bed. Wide shoulders, broad chest. He smells wrong. He smells like winter air – stuffy, not fresh; like mint, overwhelming. His cologne – foreign.

She doesn't remember the color of his eyes – she never looked into them; she was afraid of what she'd find there. It doesn't matter; if they're cerulean or grey; even if they're the exact same shade – she won't see her future in them. And his touch – it felt heavy; foreign. It felt cold.

She shivers. He finished. She didn't. She can still feel the sticky liquid between her thighs. It burns her skin. She lets it. Punishment. And she doesn't know why. She doesn't understand. But she needs; she needs to feel bad.

The sound of his breathing; thready and uneven. The rhythm doesn't match her own; it's not soothing. It's unnerving. He throws his arm around her, unconsciously. Suddenly she can't breathe; she's suffocating; she feels tethered; stranded.

She wiggles out of his reach and gets up. She goes into the bathroom. No bruises on her skin. No bite-marks. Nothing. She turns on the water. She scrubs. Her skin is red and glistening. She can't get clean.

**Sunday**

She doesn't sleep. She reads. The notes. The notes he'd leave. The notes she'd read in the morning. She reads them again, and again. Traces the letters with her fingers. She gets up at dawn. She swims for three hours. She showers. She gets to work. She doesn't stop. But then, then there's a moment of quiet between clients. And her fingertips tingle. She feels the paper, and the faded letters.

**Monday**

She closes her bloodshot eyes. She buries her face in his pillow. It smells like her shampoo. She gets up. She walks to the bathroom. She turns the light on and her eyes tear up; but then, then they adjust. She opens the cupboard and reaches for the bottle at the very back. She sprays it into the air and inhales. A wistful smile plays on her lips. She turns the light off and slips back into bed. She sprays the cologne onto the pillow. She buries her face in it.

She drifts asleep.

She dreams of him.

She always dreams of him.


End file.
